


The Grimm of Portland

by orphan_account



Category: Grimm (TV)
Genre: Break Up, Case Fic, Developing Relationship, M/M, Mind Control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-20
Updated: 2012-06-20
Packaged: 2017-11-08 05:03:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/439447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something is targeting Portland's wesen community in an effort to draw out the Grimm. Can Nick, who is struggling with his recent break up, his growing feelings for his friend, and a mysterious overseeing presence, catch it and bring it to justice?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Grimm of Portland

She slunk toward Portland, following rumors that a new Grimm had surfaced in the area. At first glance, the girl was harmless—just another runaway. She was about sixteen and too thin, with wiry dirt-brown hair that she kept cropped close to her head and ragged clothes. Her skin was the kind of tan you can only get from living on the streets and she was easily a month past due for a bath.

But if you looked closer (though I wouldn't recommend getting  _too_  close) the façade of normalcy rippled. When she smiled (which, while rare, did happen, though it usually involved things weaker than her bleeding to death at her feet) it was unhinged. Her teeth, even in her human form, were sharp but rotting—a sign of a diet consisting mostly of spoiling, raw meat. And if you were the kind of person who could see such things, you noticed that her hands were constantly shifting back and forth from fingers to claws. She felt more at home as an animal than as human.

She travelled mostly at night, her eyes glowing yellow to better see in the dark, and left a path of destruction in her wake. She was präriemord—coyoteish in form, and a long standing blood-borne illness in her family (passed down reverentially from parent to child, as if insanity was something to be venerate) made her all the more dangerous and unpredictable.

She'd helped her brother stalk a Grimm in Mexico City but the bastard had taken the kill for himself and cheated her of the glory. After, she'd left him beaten and broken on the floor of an abandoned adobe hut fifty miles from civilization. She'd learned. One does not trust anyone—not even family—when matters of honor were concerned.

But no matter—Oregon was not Mexico. She could see the glow of Portland in the night sky ahead of her, and she knew that soon she'd taste Grimm blood. Hidden in her brain, parasites devoured her neurons and she grinned, the blood of the camper she'd killed for dinner dripping from her mouth.

('')

The first concrete sign that things in Nick's life were going all to hell came with a phone call. (Well really, the first sign had been Marie showing up on his doorstep, but Nick was fairly sure he’d moved past that.)

Things had been strained lately—but how could they not be with him juggling his personal life, professional life, and Grimm life? Really, it was just a matter of time before _something_ cracked. Unfortunately, the thing that cracked was Juliette.

They’d been fighting—she was upset because of his long hours and unexplained injuries, he invariably reacted badly, unwilling (after the clusterfuck that was Adalind) to even try to explain the whole Grimm thing. After all, he didn't feel the need to be committed to a mental hospital, and he knew how crazy he would sound ( _had_ sounded, and thank God her memories of that night were fuzzy) if he told someone who couldn't  _see_  the other side of the world what was going on. Hell, half the time  _he_  still didn't even believe the things he saw.

But the cracks in his relationship had been eating at him for a long time, now. And it was worse because they weren't even drifting apart—it was more like they were being forced to opposite ends of the rational world, and his Grimm title was the lever that was thrusting them away from each other. But deep down, he knew what was coming, and though he couldn't bring himself to directly leave her, he started pushing her away.

Even months ago, before things got really bad, he started spending more time with Monroe—he had to talk to  _somebody,_ or he really would go insane. Of course, it was just beers at Monroe’s house to start with, but beers at home somehow turned into beers at bars, which somehow turned into food grabbed at cafés late at night or early in the morning when a Grimm case ran late, which then somehow turned into Monroe (or more rarely, Nick) simply making dinner for two a few nights a week.

And if Nick felt progressively more and more relaxed in Monroe's presence, that was only the natural development of their friendship. But sometimes… Sometimes there were adrenaline-filled glances, or a flash of red in Monroe's eyes when Nick accidentally brushed against him, and… well. And though he felt guilty, he would be lying if he said things with Monroe weren't getting more complicated, too.

Work wasn't exactly stress-free, either. Nick may have been imagining things, but it seemed like Renard was breathing down his and Hank's necks more often than not now. And balancing his already heavy case load with his Grimm work was becoming next to impossible. He had no idea how Marie had managed to raise him and deal with being a Grimm at the same time—he was barely functioning, and couldn't strictly remember the last time he'd had a full, uninterrupted night's sleep.

He knew his police work was falling behind, and equally knew that Hank had covered his ass several times in the past months. But he really had no idea how to handle things—and the more he stepped into being a Grimm, the more worried he became the being a detective was taking a backseat.

So yea, things had been going downhill for awhile. But when he looked back on it, (slightly dazed and disbelieving that this had happened and most importantly, he and Monroe had  _survived_ ) everything could be traced back directly to one specific night and one specific phone call.

('')

Nick raised an eyebrow when Juliette's ringtone sounded from his pocket. He glanced at Monroe, who glared back but waved him off, going back to tying up the eisbiber whom they'd finally tracked down—the creature had been (perhaps unintentionally) sabotaging electrical systems in several older warehouses, and had caused a total of seven fires. Nick had tracked him down as a personal favor for Bud, but the guy had been frustratingly difficult to find, and Nick was already in a snippy mood.

Leaving Monroe to it (which was probably rather mean—the perp seemed convinced that Monroe was going to eat him) Nick answered the phone, concerned that Juliette was calling at—Jesus, was it really one o'clock in the morning?

Normally he tried to ignore Juliette's calls when he was doing Grimm work (as bad of an idea as that may have been) but they'd just been fighting so much recently that he couldn't afford to ignore her at any point. The fact that he had obviously lost track of time and hadn't let her know where he was or when he would be home didn't exactly speak greatly of how well their relationship was going, either.

He flicked open his phone and answered her call. "Hey, are you ok?" he asked, and heard a sigh from the other end of the line.

" _Yea, fine. Just… are you coming home tonight?_  Juliette's voice hardened almost imperceptibly, and Nick tensed—his go-to emotional state for ninety percent of their interactions lately.  _"And don't tell me you're at work—I already called Hank, and he hasn't seen you since five._ "

"Ah… yea. I'll be home soon. I'm, um. At Monroe's." The blutbad in question made a panicky 'don't involve me in this' noise, but Nick ignored him.

" _Monroe's_." Juliette's voice was flat, and Nick closed his eyes and lied.

"Yea, we've had a couple beers, we were watching the Ducks game, and got to talking. I'm sorry, I lost track of time."

" _Right, well."_  She paused, and Nick silently swore.  _"Why don't you stay there tonight. I've got an early morning, I need to sleep. And I know you have tomorrow off, so… make sure you're home for dinner at six. I think... I think we need to talk, Nick."_

"Right… I'm sorry…" he said, suddenly feeling a tightening in his chest. "I'll be home. I'll come home right now."

" _No, stay at Monroe's. Or don't, I don't care_ ," Juliette sighed resignedly.  _"But don't come home tonight. I'm… I'll see you tomorrow. Six o'clock, don't forget. Bye."_

"Juliette…" Nick said, and looked at his phone, which was already proclaiming 'Call Ended.' He groaned and ran a hand over his face. "Fuck…" he walked back over to Monroe, who was watching him warily.

"You ok, man?"

Nick grunted in response. He didn't like talking about Juliette problems with Monroe—the blutbad invariably got a closed-off look and Nick thought talking relationships probably reminded him of Angelina, and wasn't that just the  _best_ (sarcasm definitely intended). "Let's just deal with this guy…" he said darkly, and Monroe shook his head slightly, obviously gladly dropping it.

"What are we doing with him?"

"We'll drop him off at the nearest police station," Nick said, then leaned down and spoke directly to the eisbiber, letting his frustration from the last couple days and his guilt about Juliette harden his face into something harder than normal. "You'll confess to sabotaging the wiring, or my blutbad friend and I will come and hunt you down, and we won't show you any mercy if we have to find you a second time. You understand?" The eisbiber nodded his head wildly, and Nick straightened up. Monroe was watching him with wide eyes.

"I…" he said, and Nick grunted, his face thunderous. Monroe perhaps tactfully chose not to say anything further and simply helped Nick hoist the eisbiber into the trunk of the car.

('')

They'd been driving in silence for perhaps five minutes after dropping off the relived-not-to-be-dead eisbiber when Monroe suddenly said, "Right ok, that was really weird."

"What?" Nick answered distractedly.

Monroe flailed his hand around the car for a moment, and Nick ducked to avoid getting smacked in the face. "You!" Monroe said with a hint of wariness. "Going all psycho-Grimm on that guy. You threatened to kill him, man!"

"He was burning buildings down," Nick growled, and went back to staring out the window.

"No, he was chewing on wires." Monroe countered, settling both hands back on the wheel and watching Nick from the corner of his eye.

"And as a result, burning buildings down." Nick said dully.

"So that obviously deserves a death threat," Monroe muttered.

Nick was silent for a moment, then sighed. "Juliette's going to leave me."

Monroe made a lupine-ish noise of disgruntlement in the back of his throat. "Not really where I saw this conversation going…"

"She told me not to come home tonight." Nick mumbled, then hesitated for a moment before asking, "Could I… possibly crash on your couch tonight? Just a nap, I'll be gone before six."

"Are you going to kill me in my sleep?" Monroe asked, the question slightly more serious than he wanted to admit, but Nick just rolled his eyes.

"I wasn't being serious with that eisbiber. You know I wouldn't ever…"

"Yea. Yea, I know. And yea, mi casa es su casa, apparently."

"Thanks, man."

"Don't mention it." Nick smiled at him and Monroe widened his eyes. "Seriously, dude. Don't tell anyone this ever."

('')

Nick left Monroe's house silently at 5:45am, with every intent to go home and make Juliette a delicious breakfast of blueberry pancakes (with home-made whipped cream) and fresh squeezed orange juice.

It was just extremely unfortunate when halfway there, he was sidetracked by what appeared to be a break-in at a jewelry store, which turned out to be the work of a flock of crow-people, that turned into a haphazard chase through what seemed like  _all_ of Portland, and how the resulting paperwork (and covering of his tracks) took him until almost nine at night.

He pulled up to his house a disheveled mess and took the stairs two at a time, running to try to make things right—he knew there was no way he was in time to salvage dinner.

But the second he burst through the front door, he stopped dead, eyes fixed on the suitcases stacked neatly near in the entryway.

"Juliette…" Nick said miserably, entirely too aware of what those suitcases meant.

"Nick." Juliette stepped into the hall, her eyes cast down.

"That's not…"

Juliette's head snapped up and Nick took a step back, pressed himself against the wall. A furious Juliette was, quite frankly, a terrifying Juliette—no matter how many violent supernatural creatures Nick dealt with, this woman could still reduce him to a puddle.

"I'm  _sick_  of this, Nick," she said, her words icy. "Ever since your aunt died, you've just… you're so distant, and it's only been getting worse as time goes on. At first I thought you were mourning, but now… You never tell me what's going on, where you're going to be, when you're coming home, even who you're with… You’ve been attacked, _I’ve_ been attacked, I can't _do_ this anymore."

"I can be better…"

"No.” He held up a hand to forestall his arguments. “You can’t change my mind about this, Nick. I’m sick of being the fifth most important thing in your life, so I'm leaving. You couldn't even be on time  _tonight_. Even after I specifically asked you… and I know a cop's life is unpredictable, but this is different. You never used to be so…" she trailed off, her face scrunched up and clouded with unshed tears.

"I love you," Nick tried, his voice breaking.

Juliette's eyes softened for a moment before hardening again. "I love you, too. But you're not trying. Hell, you spend more time with  _Monroe_  than you do with me. And…" she looked pained for a second, and continued in a rush: "And he's  _weird_ , really weird. He sniffs things."

"I thought you liked him?" Nick asked, confused.

“I do, I did… I just. The more I talk to him, the stranger he got. You can’t tell me he’s normal, Nick.”

Nick stared at her. “You talk to him a lot?”

Juliette threw her hands up in the air. "I don't know! Yea, I talk to him, maybe during one of the fifty times you’ve been in the hospital recently? ‘Cause  _that's_  gone up too—I don’t remember you getting hurt so badly all the time before."

"It's—"

Juliette's eyes narrowed. "And you talk about him. 'Monroe said this, Monroe did that,' You don't think you do, but you talk about him all the damn time. I almost think—" she cut herself off and gritted her teeth.

Nick felt like he'd been punched. He didn't talk about Monroe  _that_  much, did he? Well, he couldn't really talk about him to Hank (what with Monroe being a one-time suspect and Hank still thinking he was crazy for befriending him) but obviously Juliette knew him and… His mind skittered toward what she had just almost accused him of and he frowned.

"You almost think what?" His voice was shaky. She wouldn’t be—she didn’t think—

Juliette looked at him, her eyes sad. "I know you like men, too. If you… I just never thought you'd be the cheating type."

Nick's eyes widened. He wasn't—he didn't—Monroe wasn't—

Yea, ok. This might have looked a little bad, but Monroe was just so entirely unavailable on  _so_  many levels, it shouldn't even factor in to Juliette's reasoning, but Jesus! Nick ran a hand over his face—he wasn’t prepared to try and explain about blutbads and Grimm business again, not if he wanted to stay out of a mental hospital, not if he wanted her to stay…

Nick tried again, reassuring, "I'm  _not_  cheating on you, please, think about it, would I have brought him to meet you if I was _cheating_  with him? Just _please,_ let's just talk about this—"

Arms crossed, Juliette snapped, "No, Nick. I'm _done_ talking, and you never listen anyway. We've had this conversation a hundred times already, and nothing's changed. It’s the definition of insanity, Nick—I can't keep doing the same things and expecting a different result." She bent down and picked up her bags. "I'll be back this weekend for the rest of my stuff. I don't want any money for the house. I just want…" she sighed. "Be safe, ok?" She pecked him on the cheek, opened the door, and it swung shut softly behind her.

And with that, she was gone.

Nick stared after her, unbelieving that this was really happening. After ten minutes of her not returning, he slid down the wall and covered his face with his hands.

He didn't think any creatures would be particularly scared of a Grimm crouched on the floor, crying because his girlfriend left him.

He didn't really care.

Three days later, the killings began, and Nick's already shitty life took another nosedive.

('')

The first victim was a mid-twenties homeless man and the only reason Nick realized he was a creature was because he had (guiltily, with Juliette's parting accusations still ringing in his ears) met Monroe for a beer later in the evening and the blutbad had commented that he smelled like a 'dead klaustreich.'

After some half-hearted ribbing about just why exactly Monroe knew what a dead klaustreich smelled like, Nick had sobered and filled his friend in on the day's unsolved murder—at least he thought it was a murder, though at first glance more signs pointed to suicide. The victim had hung himself, but there had been other, less obvious, signs of a struggle. Nick and Hank were both convinced that someone had forced the man to kill himself.

Monroe promised to keep his eyes open and nose to the floor, and Nick hated himself for relying so closely on him. In the same instant, he hated Monroe a little for how easily he offered up his help.

So Nick thanked him (almost successfully ignoring the warm feeling in his chest when Monroe flashed him a smile) and returned to an empty house and sulked and told himself he wasn't going to interfere with Monroe's life anymore unless it was an emergency.

So when Monroe called him two days later, he let his phone go to voicemail. Juliette had been right—he spent too much time with the blutbad. He should look at Monroe as he would a confidential informant. They were getting entirely too close, and that kind of terrified Nick.

('')

Three more victims appeared over the course of two weeks, (a mauzhertz, a bauerschwein, and a hexenbiest) all at first glance suicides. But with the slightest prodding, this cover was broken and each one slipped into the realm of homicide.

There were no leads, no explanations.

There  _was_  an unpleasant buzzing feeling in Nick's gut that grew with every creature's death. Something was targeting the creatures of Portland, and he had no idea what it was. And late at night, he got the distinct feeling that he was being watched.

There was no pattern—none of the victims had any connections aside from their inhumanity, and all the methods of death were different.

At least it gave Nick something to concentrate on other than his empty house.

And how badly he missed Juliette.

And Monroe.

('')

Nick had been sitting morosely in his only remaining comfortable chair (Juliette had brought a  _lot_  of furniture to the relationship, apparently) when there was a knock on his door. His first thought was  _Monroe_ , his second,  _Juliette_ , (and if the order of those thoughts wasn't telling, Nick didn't know what was) but when he got to the door, no one was there.

"Hello?" he called into the night, confused. Had he seriously just been doorbell-ditched? But his Grimm senses abruptly demanded otherwise, the hair on the back of his neck and his arms prickling uneasily, and he narrowed his eyes, searching in the darkness for something, anything.

A flutter of paper at his feet caught his attention, and he bent down to pluck it from where it had been stuck between planks of wood on his porch. The paper was thick and the words were written in dark, heavy ink and curling, even calligraphy. It read:

_Grimms have long regressed to judge, jury, and executioner to the supernatural world._

_But you, Nicolas, have changed the status quo._

_You could be what Grimms were meant to be—help those who need your protection and you will be on the way._

_A creature is responsible for these latest deaths._

_Find it and protect your charges._

_~R_

Nick stared at the page for a long minute before standing and peering again into the darkness, but whatever sense had told him there was something out there was no longer sounding. The messenger had left.

He sucked in a breath and stepped backward into his house, shutting the door with a click. He glanced at the clock—it wasn't even six, still early. He grabbed his shoes and jacket, headed out the door in a rush. As much as he'd told himself not to, there was only one place he could go when he was at a loss regarding the creature world.

('')

Renard melted into the darkness as soon as he saw that Nick had retrieved the note. He sighed in distaste as he walked back to his car—he hated involving himself this directly in the affairs of the Grimm, but he had to do something to get Nick more involved.

After all, it had been his own prodding that had brought Nick's powers to head before his aunt had a chance to teach him anything substantial, and left Nick open to suggestion. He had high hopes for the young Grimm—he hadn't lied in the note. Nick had the possibility to be a shining new direction—or rather, a return to how Grimms were supposed to be. He just hoped that Nick was strong enough to handle things on his own.

He also hoped that Nick didn't get himself killed, of course. Renard had been rather annoyed with himself when he realized that he actually liked the young Grimm, but it had settled into more of an interest as time went on and the kid didn't die. The blutbad's interference (while unexpected) had helped. Nick had done well to make an ally of the creature.

And of course Renard could kill the präriemord himself, but that would violate certain treaties and laws—not that he particularly  _cared_ , as he was more than powerful enough to simply do as he pleased. But there was a reason he was in America and not Russia with the rest of his family—he ruled here, obviously, but not with the iron fist of his predecessors.

And if the Grimm couldn't handle this current insane creature—well. Renard would be doubly disappointed, both for losing a good cop and a potentially powerful ally. But he could always try again with someone else.

He'd done it before.

('')

Monroe was chewing on his lip, carefully (oh so very carefully) aligning miniscule gears in an antique cuckoo clock when his doorbell rang. His hand jerked and he swore under his breath, flicked his magnifying goggles up, and stalked to the door. He wrenched it open, almost growling under his breath, and saw…

Nick.

And the Grimm looked  _terrible_.

"Jesus, man, what the hell?" Monroe asked, stepping back to let the man in, ignoring the warm feeling growing in his chest that after weeks of avoiding him, Nick had come  _back_. Nick gave him a grateful look and practically stumbled in, heading straight for Monroe's kitchen and fridge.

"Yea, come in Nick, I'm great, how've you been, haven't seen you in weeks, is everything ok, would you like a beer?" Monroe drawled, trailing slowly after the Grimm. When he got to his kitchen, Nick was already nursing one of Monroe's favorite IPAs, his eyes closed, head tilted back.

Monroe sucked in a breath at the sight of the exposed neck, but blinked and pushed the dangerous thought (what thought? There was no thought) out of his head.

"Wanna tell me what's up? Or can I go back to, you know. My job?"

Nick looked around dazedly, finally focusing on Monroe after long seconds.

"I have no idea what to do," he told the blutbad slowly, and took another swig of his beer.

Monroe nodded when it became apparent that Nick was not going to elaborate. "Yea, 'cause you're not being vague at all," he said, leaning against his counter and crossing his arms.

Nick snorted. "I have a lot I don't know what to do with," he admitted, a tiny smile on his lips. "I need a… a sympathetic ear. Someone I can talk to about everything. I was kind of hoping we could hang out a bit."

Monroe rolled his eyes. "I would cite that I have a life, but you know I'm lying. Come on, let's watch football, make all this touchy-feely stuff more palatable."

Nick actually laughed shortly at this, and when Monroe led him into the living room, he did so with a small smile. He'd missed the Grimm—Nick had shut down a bit (a bit? Understatement of the fuckin' century) when Juliette left, and Monroe was glad to see him out of the house and not at the precinct.

Not that Monroe had spent a day (or three) following the Grimm around to make sure the man wasn't losing his grip on… reality or whatever. Really. But it was seriously cutting into his 'getting work done' time.

They settled on opposite ends of the couch and Monroe flicked on the TV, muted. "So," he said awkwardly. "Talk, I guess?"

Nick sighed and appeared to collect his thoughts. "Well, I'm sorry, first of all," he said, and Monroe blinked at him.

"For what?"

"I've been… I was pissed off at you. 'Cause of Juliette."

Monroe stared at him blankly.

"One of the things she said," Nick mumbled haltingly, "was that I spent more time with you than with her and how that was weird and how she didn't like it and we fought about it a couple times and then she brought it up again the night she left and kind of accused me of cheating on her with you and…" he shook his head. "So that's why I've been ignoring you."

Monroe nodded slowly. "Well I got some work done," (lies, he had been too worried to work) "and it was nice not being hunted and crap," (more lies, it was boring) "and the idea of you cheating with me is a little ridiculous," (lies, Monroe, lies, it's not ridiculous at all).

"Yea," Nick said, and they lapsed into comfortable silence for long minutes, watching tiny college footballers run around Monroe's television.

"And then there's been these murders," Nick said suddenly, and Monroe jumped.

"You mean that fake suicide thing?" he asked Nick uncertainly, and Nick nodded.

"There's been three more. All creatures, all apparent suicides, but then when we look a little closer, things start getting suspicious." He clinked his beer onto the coffee table (Monroe leaned forward and slid a coaster under it) and rubbed his hands through his hair. "It's driving me crazy—something's attacking creatures and I have _no_  idea what to do about it. I can't even find  _one_  connection between the victims."

He stood suddenly and dug into his pocket, produced a thick sheet of cream-colored paper, and thrust it into Monroe's face. He took is gingerly (with a raised eyebrow, it wouldn't do for Nick to think he was actually  _interested_ ) and unfolded it, and scanned the words.

And then reread them, lingering on the '~R' at the end of the note.

"Who…?"

"No idea. Someone left it on my porch earlier tonight. I think a creature dropped it off—my spidey-senses went all haywire." Nick stuffed his hands into his pockets and started pacing. Monroe tracked his movements for a moment, then went back to the note.

"So you're sure this involves the murders?" he asked, feeling slightly dense, but hey, he wasn't the cop in this situation.

"What else could it mean? People getting killed, people only  _I_  am in the unique position to help? It's the only thing it could be," Nick murmured, stalking to Monroe's fireplace and picking up one of the five clocks on the mantle. "This one's off," he said offhandedly, and Monroe glanced up.

"That one doesn't measure 'time,' per se," he told Nick, who then set the clock down as if it were explosive.

"Okay then," Nick muttered. "So, what do you think about the note?"

"I think that someone wants you to keep doing what you've been doing, and probably solve this latest problem."

"Monroe, have I ever mentioned how intensely helpful you can be?"

Monroe snorted. "No need to be sarcastic. But seriously, dude. I have no idea. 'R' isn't much to go on."

"Yea," Nick sighed, and they lapsed into silence.

Finally, Monroe sighed. "Look, I was going to make some kimchi and pot stickers if you want dinner."

Nick flashed him a smile. "I was wondering about the smell of rotting socks…"

"Dude, don't be hating on the kimchi. It is literally one of the world's healthiest foods. And I have the process down to an art. Your taste buds will have orgasms." But Monroe was grinning back at him, and Nick willingly followed him to the kitchen. Monroe suppressed a surge of pleasure when Nick went directly to the right cabinets and set the table without being asked, complete with each of their favorite mug.

Nick put on the kettle to boil water for tea, and Monroe stirred the pot of fermented cabbage and felt very pleased that Nick was back.

('')

Ellie Sawyer groaned, groggily coming to in a… warehouse? She rubbed her head, willing her eyes back into focus. She sniffed and cringed, a hint of whiskers, rounded ears, and fangs showing on her face for a moment. She let her silberlöwen instincts take over for a moment, her face sharpening into lionish features and sprouting a thin layer of golden hair, just long enough to perfectly catalogue every scent within the warehouse (mostly dust and mold, but there was a hint of blood and fear that made her hackles rise) before pushing herself to her feet and looking around.

"You don't need to bother," a singsong voice floated toward her from over rows of boxes.

She spun, her claws and fangs extending instantly, crouching, scanning and scenting for the other being in the enclosed space. After a moment, when she finally caught the unusual scent—fur and desert dust and anger—she let out a shaky breath. If this was what she thought it was, she may be in more trouble than she'd originally thought.

A slim teenager slipped from between stacks of boxes and stepped lightly toward her, a slightly crazed smile on her face. Ellie gulped and allowed herself to appear almost fully mountain lion—she felt her tail uncurl behind her, her teeth sharpen, her muscles harden. "What do you want," she asked shakily, but the girl only smiled until she was nearly on top of Ellie.

"I want…" she trilled, rocking back and forth slightly, and Ellie backed up a step. The girl's face suddenly shifted, and Ellie whimpered, confronted with the long graceful muzzle and sharp teeth, brown fur and dark, insane eyes of a präriemord.

"Please," Ellie whined, but the girl simply cocked her head.

"I want to find the Grimm," she growled. "And I really don't care how many of you I have to kill to find it. So now," she grinned, her mouth full of crooked and slightly rotting sharp teeth—Ellie realized with a sick jolt that teeth only got that way by eating raw meat—"I want you to do as I say." The insane eyes focused, and Ellie suddenly found herself unable to look away. If possible, the girl's face became more sharp and feral.

"Are you listening?" The teen's voice was soft, and Ellie nodded slowly, transfixed.

"Yes. Tell me, I'll do anything…"

"Good." The präriemord's face grew thoughtful for a moment before the unsettling grin (not that Ellie thought it was unsettling anymore—in fact, it was the most beautiful grin she'd ever seen) was back. "I want you to write a note."

Ellie fumbled in her pockets for a pen, but the girl shook her head.

"No, no, no. Use your blood. Write on the floor. Here," she offered, holding out a straight razor. Ellie took it gratefully and poised it over her wrist, looking up at the girl she wanted so desperately to please.

"What should the note say?"

"Coyote," the girl said, and Ellie nodded happily before slitting her wrist with enough force to slice through tendons. Blood poured out, but she was able to write out the single word before she succumbed to blood loss.

After watching the randomly chosen silberlöwen bleed to death on the floor of an equally randomly chosen warehouse, the girl danced off into the darkness, listening to music that only played in her head.

Five dead creatures. If that wasn't enough to call out the Grimm—well. She'd have to start being less subtle.

('')

Nick sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. He was standing outside a warehouse on the edge of town, and he seriously needed a breath of fresh air after the scene inside. The dead woman had cut her wrist so deep she'd practically sliced her hand off, and to top it off, there was the message written in her own blood.

 _Coyote_.

What the hell did that mean?

Nick sighed again and turned to head back in, but a blur of movement from the nearby scrub caught his eye. He reached down and flicked the strap securing his gun loose and slid his hand along the grip to where he could draw in half a second with ease. He treaded warily toward the undergrowth and called out softly, "Show yourself."

There was a quiet (and familiar) growl, and Nick snorted and dropped his hold on the gun. He pushed past a bush and glared at the lurker.

"You know better than to follow me to crime scenes. What if Hank saw you?"

Monroe shrugged. "He won't see me. I'm a leaf on the wind." He wiggled his fingers in Nick's direction, and Nick had to fight down the urge to giggle.

"Don't make me laugh at a crime scene," he ordered lightly. "It's wildly inappropriate."

"I make no promises," Monroe said, smiling slightly, but then sobered. "Your dead girl is a silberlöwen—kind of like a mountain lion. Formidable. Less than the hexenbiest or, you know, me, but pretty high up there."

"And you know this… how?" Nick gazed at Monroe, who raised an eyebrow back.

"Dude, I could smell her a mile away. They're ridiculously territorial—her scent's all over the place around here. I could lead you to her house if you wanted."

"No, that's all right," Nick said, glancing down at his phone when it dinged—incoming text, probably from Hank, wondering where he'd disappeared to. "She had an ID."

Monroe hummed under his breath and Nick didn't even glance at him (he was busy texting Hank) as his face took on a more wolfish cast. Monroe inhaled deeply and then shook his head, the wolf sliding back under again.

"There's something else," he said softly, and Nick looked up. Monroe furrowed his brow. "I don't recognize it. Would it be safe for me to come back here tonight?"

"We'll be done in a couple hours," Nick said before he fully realized what Monroe was asking, and when it sank in, he blanched. "But no—no, Monroe. Don't come back here tonight, I can't be here, it's dangerous."

Monroe looked at him as if he was a crazy person. "I'm a blutbad," he said slowly, as if that was the answer to life, the universe, and everything.

Nick smiled tightly. "Irrelevant. Something's killing people from the creature world, of which you are still a part. I don't want you anywhere other than your house. As a matter of fact, go home right now." He flapped his hands at Monroe, who took a step back and snorted in laughter.

"Did you just 'shoo' me? Seriously, Grimm, you get weirder every day."

"Please, Monroe," Nick implored, and the blutbad shook his head.

"I can follow the trail of whatever was here. And I get involved in your crappy danger drama all the time, why is this so different?"

Nick wasn't sure. Maybe it was the fact that otherwise powerful creatures had been so effortlessly killed. Maybe it was just that he couldn't get Monroe out of his head. Maybe it was his Grimm instincts kicking in. Whatever it was, he knew Monroe was in danger with this one. He instantly regretted even saying anything to his friend about the murders and abruptly decided not to tell him about the bloody note.

He sighed, and Monroe watched his inner battle, amused at the play of emotions on the Grimm's face.

"Look," Nick finally said, and Monroe cocked his head. "I don't want to put you in danger for this case. I've just got a bad feeling." Monroe opened his mouth to argue, but Nick, with a sudden surge of protective bravery, brought his hand up to rest on the blutbad's chest. Monroe stared down at their point of contact with wide eyes.

"Monroe. Please, just go home. I'll come by later tonight, I promise, I'll fill you in on everything. Just… I need you to be safe right now."

"I—" Monroe stammered, but shook his head as if to clear it and stepped back slightly. Nick's hand dropped from his chest. "Okay. That's… okay." He took another small step back and Nick watched him, his face worried. Monroe caught this after a moment and flashed him a (rather weak) smile. "Bring beer, you've finished all mine."

"Okay," Nick said, and with that, Monroe spun and loped off through the bushes. Nick remained where he was for a minute, until he could no longer see a flash of plaid flannel through the trees, then turned and went back to the crime scene.

He felt a lot better knowing that Monroe was going home to relative safety.

('')

On a small rise near the warehouse—close enough to watch but far away enough to not be seen—the präriemord crouched, almost entirely coyote. She flicked her ears forward and tracked the Grimm, a snarl rising unbidden in her throat as she watched him.

Her elation at finally drawing out her quarry (although she'd actually seen him before at the other crime scenes—but she was able to scent him this time) was replaced by just the slightest bit of confusion.

A blutbad. The Grimm… was friends with a blutbad.

She swiveled her head and gazed in the direction the wolf had run. She smiled to herself as an idea occurred to her. The introduction of another character actually made this all the more enjoyable. She would get to have such  _fun_  with this Grimm before she killed him. The best kills were the ones where you got to make your prey watch their loved ones die.

She sniffed the air and tread her claws into the soft dirt under her feet.

 _Such_  fun.

She slunk down the hill, nose to the ground, following the blutbad's scent.

('')

Monroe was humming to himself and fixing a sandwich when he heard the knock on his door.  _Nick already?_  he thought, and left the kitchen (sandwich half-made and abandoned) and headed down the hall toward the door.

Halfway there, he slowed and then stopped.

That was  _not_  Nick's scent.

In fact, he had precisely two seconds to realize several things: 1) it was a much stronger version of that unknown smell he'd noticed at the crime scene, 2) this was probably the murderer at his door, 3) his door was unlocked, and  _oh dammit_ , 4) his door was swinging open to reveal a crazily-grinning teenager.

"Hello, cousin!" she said brightly, and Monroe growled.

('')

Nick pulled up to Monroe's house with a small smile on his face—he'd successfully remembered one of the blutbad's favorite brands of beer, and he was sure Monroe would be pleased he'd remembered.

And despite the pretense for seeing Monroe tonight—filling him in on the murders, which he no intention of actually doing—Nick was genuinely looking forward to a relaxing evening. God knows he needed it after today.

He as halfway up the walk when he realized Monroe's front door was open, and he stopped in his tracks, a sudden cold feeling wrapping around his chest.

Images of the houses of the victims—all five of them, now—flashed in front of his eyes. Front door wide open, smears of blood along the walls, gouges where the victim had tried to fight their abduction, half-finished meals and cups of coffee…

He dropped the beer and bolted for the door, drawing his gun as he went. He skidded to a stop, looking wildly around Monroe's front entryway (no, oh  _god_  no, not Monroe) practically choking on his heart when he saw the now-familiar pattern of bloody smears.

"Monroe!" he shouted, knowing he wouldn't get an answer.

He moved further into the house—it was more ransacked than the others, and he felt a surge of something (pride, maybe?) when he realized his friend must have put up a hell of a fight. No way was Monroe going down without drawing some blood of his own.

That gave him an idea—he pulled out his phone, called in the break-in, the disappearance, ordered forensics. Maybe Monroe had got in a shot. Monroe had _probably_ got in a shot. It was very likely not all this blood was his.

Ten minutes later, Hank pulled up and found Nick pacing on Monroe's front lawn. Nick didn't even look up at his partner's approach—he was trying to think of _anything_  that would lead him to his friend. Hank paused and gave the house a critical eye.

"So the clockmaker…

"Yea," Nick snapped, but then gentled his voice when Hank gave him a Look. "Yea. Monroe. Look, I know you think I’m crazy for being friends with him, but so not the time right now, okay?"

Hank eyed him. "…Okay, Nick. So you think he's the latest victim? Small world…"

Nick grunted noncommittally before saying, slightly breathlessly, "We've got to find him, I can't—"

"Hey," Hank said quickly, glancing around. "Calm down. If you keep acting like you've lost your boyfriend, Renard'll take you off the case."

"He's not my boyfriend," Nick muttered, but he stopped pacing. He placed his hand on the cool metal of Monroe's bug, stabilizing himself. "Okay, he's got to be nearby, if we go off past events—every one of the victims was found within half a mile of their houses. We should get someone to find every abandoned structure within that radius." He looked up at Hank, who nodded. "Quickly," Nick added. "We have no idea what the timetable is."

('')

Monroe woke to the smell of chemicals. He was dizzy, his vision blurry… if he remembered correctly, he'd taken a hell of a smash to the head. By a teenager. Jeez, the girl couldn't have been older than sixteen…

He shook his head, allowed the wolf to woge. The colors surrounding him (red excepted, of course) muted, smells became close to visible, hearing sharpened—and there. In the next room, he heard another heartbeat. Desert dust flooded his nose, and he growled, his claws lengthening and his fangs sliding past his lips.

The girl stepped around the corner and gave him a wide grin, tried to catch his eye. But Monroe wasn't stupid—he'd heard stories about präriemord and he was pretty sure—pretty _damn_ sure—that’s what she was. So he kept his eyes firmly away from hers, instead focusing on the pulse point in her neck. What he wouldn't do to latch on and tear…

"Hi," she said perkily, apparently unfazed that he wouldn't look directly at her. She pushed herself up on a counter (they were in an abandoned Laundromat, apparently—Monroe vaguely remembered there being one a few blocks from his house) and swung her legs. "Tell me about the Grimm."

Monroe growled and let the wolf out a little more.

The girl sighed. "I can make you tell me, you know."

"I won't tell you shit," Monroe rumbled, and the girl laughed. He flicked back his ears, disconcerted at how unhinged she sounded. "Why, anyway? What good is this?"

"My family hunts Grimms," she said, shrugging. My brother killed the one in Mexico City last year. It's my turn, and this one is getting a reputation." She bared her teeth and Monroe curled a lip at the look of unbridled pleasure on her face. "Fresh meat," she purred. "I'll eat his heart."

She jumped lightly off the counter and sidled up to him, never getting close enough that she wouldn't be able to back off if he decided to strike. "But you, blutbad…" she looked him up and down, a ripple of her control breaking, and Monroe caught a hint of crooked, rotting teeth in a pointed muzzle. He winced.

"What about me?"

"You're his friend," she said softly, her face going thunderous. "He touched you, and you didn't rip his hand off." She leaned in, snarling. "There's something wrong with you."

"I'm reformed," he said weakly, and she scoffed.

"Reformed is one thing, but lusting after a Grimm is another." She shrugged again. "But no matter." She was suddenly pressing against him, in his face, and he lashed out, claws seeking flesh, but she was so fast—he found his paw caught in a vise-like grip, and suddenly he was looking her straight on. He felt his resolve crumble, and all he wanted was to look into her eyes.

"There we go," she growled, low in her throat, and Monroe nodded dumbly.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked, and she paused, considering.

"Your Grimm is just terrible at tracking," she muttered. "I think the subtlety has to go."

"He's new," Monroe offered, some part of him still wanting to defend Nick even while under her thrall.

"Mmm," she hummed, and a rather fiendish look started to glow in her eyes. "Here's what I want you to do. Go find him, bring him here." Monroe nodded, and she waved him off. "Hurry up. Oh, and make sure it's just you two. I don't want interruptions to his execution."

"Going," Monroe mumbled, and limped out of the back room toward the front door. He had to find Nick.

('')

Monroe was two blocks away from the Laundromat when he shook his head and the air around him seemed to clear. What was he doing? ( _finding Nick)_ But why was he… oh. Oh. The fucking  _präriemord_. He had looked at her, made eye contact,  _dammit_ , why did he do that? He  _knew_  better. His mother would have been so disappointed in him.

He could feel her order circling his brain, and was aware that he would still be compelled to do what she said, no matter how coherent he was right now. He paused on the street, suddenly aware of how freaking destroyed he must look—puffy face where he'd been punched, deep gouges down his arms and chest, clothes ripped, swollen knee (he vaguely thought it may have been dislocated at some point, but it wasn't now). Even his fingertips were bloody, he discovered. Good. The only reason that would be was if he'd gotten in a few swipes of his own. He hoped the bitch was bleeding.

He somehow made it home, both surprised and annoyed to see his front door taped off by the police. Huh. Nick must have been here at some point. He ducked under the tape and searched for a minute before he found his phone—briefly typed out 'I'm home, meet me at my house' to Nick, hit send. He collapsed on his couch and promptly fell asleep.

The next thing he knew, he was being shaken awake. He growled low in his throat but then recognized the smell and opened his eyes. Nick was kneeling in front of him, eyes wide in a panic, blabbering something about a hospital, an ambulance…

"Shut up," Monroe mumbled, and to his surprise, Nick's mouth snapped shut. Monroe felt the compulsion rise in the back of his mind—he needed to bring Nick to the präriemord. But, but, but… he needed to tell Nick about her first.

"Präriemord," he forced out, and Nick's forehead furrowed in confusion. "They're… coyotes. Nasty, nasty, they can force creatures to do what they say," Monroe continued. "S'why they all look like suicides, she tells 'em to…"

"She?" Nick muttered, hand snaking toward his phone. "Where is she, Monroe?"

"I looked at her," Monroe told him miserably, and Nick's hand stilled. "She told me to, I have to…"

"You have to what?" Nick asked him softly, and Monroe groggily became aware that Nick's arm had slid around his shoulders. Their faces were very close.

Monroe blinked, forcing himself to think. "She compels creatures when they make eye contact. Humans 're… mostly immune. She can convince them to do what she wants, but not compel. You need weapons, Nick, she's strong and fast and hurts…"

"I've got weapons," Nick assured him.

"More than a gun," Monroe insisted.

"I have more than a gun," Nick told him soothingly. "What did she tell you to do?"

"I'm supposed to bring you to her. Alone," Monroe muttered. "She wants to kill you."

Nick smiled tightly at him. "She and the whole world want to kill me, apparently."

"Not me," Monroe mumbled, and Nick's face fluttered with some emotion Monroe couldn't make out. But the compulsion to return to her was growing stronger every second he talked to Nick—he'd have to give in soon. "I'm sorry, Nick, I shouldn't have looked at her."

"Hey, I'm just happy you're alive," Nick told him, and the arm around Monroe's shoulders tightened. "You can't scare me like that again, okay?"

"'Kay," Monroe breathed out. He felt darkness fluttering at the edge of his consciousness. "I gotta take you to her, I'll have a heart attack or something if I don't. I have to follow her orders."

Nick nodded. "That's fine. I want to meet this… what'd you call her?"

"Präriemord."

"Präriemord," Nick agreed. "She needs to answer for some stuff, yea?"

Monroe nodded in agreement and pushed himself to his feet, ignoring Nick's worried look. He felt better already now that he was following the präriemord's orders. He led Nick out of his house and turned to walk back down the street, but Nick's hand on his arm stopped him.

"We'll take my truck. I have weapons in it, and I don't want you walking more than you have to. In fact, why don't you just tell me where she is and I'll go by myself?"

Monroe shook his head. "No. She said I have to bring you. Very specific."

Nick looked unhappy, but he agreed. "All right. But when we get there, you stay the hell out of the way, all right?"

Monroe nodded, but muttered "No promises," under his breath and slumped into Nick's passenger seat. Nick got in, too, and Monroe directed him toward the laundromat.

When they got there, the moon was just rising over the horizon and the lights were off inside the building. Monroe felt very much as if he'd betrayed Nick in just about the worst way possible, and glanced at his friend for a moment before sliding out of the truck. Nick looked determined, and after a moment of fumbling behind his seat, he emerged with not only his police-issue Glock, but a nasty looking long-bladed knife and a crossbow. Monroe raised an eyebrow in appreciation and Nick nodded to him.

They stepped up to the entrance and Monroe opened the door.

('')

The first thing Nick noticed upon stepping into the Laundromat was the smell of blood. He glanced at Monroe—his face had slackened and he was swaying slightly where he stood near the door. Apparently being back near the präriemord made the compelling spell (or whatever it was, Monroe hadn't been particularly specific) strengthen.

"Monroe," he snapped, and the blutbad gazed groggily in his direction. "Monroe, snap out of it."

"Yea," Monroe agreed, but if anything, his eyes became more unfocused. Nick swore under his breath, and in the same instant, a teenaged girl appeared out of seemingly nowhere and jumped lightly on the counter.

"Grimm!" she said, obviously pleased, and spared a glance at Monroe. "That was faster than I'd anticipated. Good wolf," she said softly, and Nick was disconcerted to see Monroe break into a grin.

"Do you want me to do anything else?" Monroe asked earnestly, and the girl laughed.

"Yes," she said, and her dark eyes flicked toward Nick. "Take his gun."

Monroe nodded and Nick watched in horror (it happened faster than he was able to react) as his features became more wolfish and he lunged forward, neatly ripping the gun out of Nick's holster. Nick met his eyes for a split second and was upset to see a flash of pain and regret there— _he must know what he's doing_ , Nick realized,  _but can't stop it._

"Just hold on to that for a minute," the girl ordered Monroe, who stilled, holding the gun tightly but pointing it at nothing. The girl turned her attention back to Nick.

"What's your name?" she asked, and Nick blinked, caught off-guard.

"Nick," he said warily, and she nodded.

"Hello Nick, I'm Breaker. Nice to meet you."

"Not really," Nick countered. "You're under arrest for the murder of—" he was cut off by her barking laugh.

"I didn't murder anyone," she said between giggled. "Well, not that you know about. They did it themselves. They always do it themselves."

"Why are you doing this?" Nick asked, eyes scanning for possible ways to take her down. She smiled indulgently at him.

"Because of the honor! Reapers aren’t the only ones who have a problem with your kind. Grimms may be difficult to kill, but you are parasites on the creature world. We do our fellow animals a favor. But it doesn't really matter. What does matter is that now it is now it is  _my_  turn to kill a Grimm. And my family is very good at what we do. My brother's killed three, my older sister's got one." She flashed him a smile and her control over her form slipped. Nick widened his eyes at the pure disheveled insanity under the façade of normal teen. "I'm working on one," she continued, her voice low.

"I haven't done you any harm, and neither has Monroe," Nick told her, muscles tense as she fidgeted on the counter. "You should let him go."

She snorted. "He's under my thrall. There's no 'letting go' from that. I own him now."

Nick unconsciously curled his lip in distaste.

Breaker smiled at him. "I feel that I'm lucky in the fact that I chose you," she told him, grinning. "I've never met a Grimm who's been friends with a creature before. Hell, I've never seen one with friends in general before." Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "And you two seem so close." She slid off the counter and took a step forward, locking her eyes on his. "What would you do to keep him out of harm's way? You can tell me, I promise I won't hurt him."

Nick breathed out, feeling an odd tickling sensation at the back of his mind. He realized with a jolt that she as attempting to cast a thrall over him.

"You're lying," he spat.

She smiled widely and threw up her hands. "Caught me! Yea, I'm lying. This isn't a lie though." Her face hardened. "The blutbad isn't going to survive this because!" She held up one long finger, silencing the words on Nick's lips. "Because," she continued slowly, "the look on your face when you watch him kill himself is going to be just… amazing."

She grinned, full of teeth, and focused back on Monroe, whose eyes were slightly widened.

"Monroe, get out of here!" Nick shouted, but Breaker slightly shook her head and Monroe was rooted to the spot.

"Blutbad," she said softly, and Nick swung the crossbow from his shoulder, unsheathed the knife.

"Don't say anything," he warned. "I swear to god, I'll kill you."

She gave him a condescending look. "You'd have to be very fast, and you're new at this. You won't be able to touch a hair on my head."

"One last chance," Nick grated, "to come quietly."

She giggled, and focused on Monroe. "Blutbad, shoot yourself in the head."

Nick's eyes widened in horror as Monroe raised the gun, slipped it past his lips, and pulled the trigger.

The world slowed down, and he spun (more furious than he'd ever been in his whole life) to the präriemord, cocking the crossbow and firing in less than half a second. She looked surprised when he moved, but Jesus, she  _was_  fast. The arrow sailed through the air, and if she'd been even a millisecond slower, it would have hit her square in the chest.

Instead, it sliced a gouge into her shoulder and she snarled, morphing into a grotesque caricature of a coyote—legs slightly too long, mouth too wide, too many crooked, rotting teeth. Her eyes were jet black streaked with yellow, and she let out a sound that sounded frighteningly like a roar and charged him.

The next minutes were a blur. Nick simply fought—slicing, hitting, gouging where he could, avoiding claws and teeth and fury to the best of his abilities. He may have been new at the whole Grimm thing, but his short career history had been a bloody and tumultuous one.

He was no stranger to violence.

Teeth grazed his cheek and he jerked, swung his arm (and the knife clutched in his fist) in a particularly forceful arc and felt it sink into something.

There was a short, pained bark and suddenly the pressing weight of the präriemord was off his back. He blinked, staring at the girl, who appeared human again. His knife protruded from her chest, and she was fixed on it disbelievingly. She looked up at him, confused, then fell to her knees, swayed for a moment and tipped over, slumping dead to the ground.

Nick panted, shaking, shocked he was still alive. He'd done it. But, oh god, no…

 _Monroe_.

He let out a soft whimper and ran across the room, falling to his knees beside the blutbad and gathering him in his arms. Monroe's head lolled, and oh, there was so much blood… Nick couldn't hold back a sob. He pressed his forehead against Monroe's and felt the tears begin to flow, and he was so upset it took him a moment to realize—

Monroe was still breathing.

('')

Blutbaden in general are not well-known for their intellectual prowess. They're more of a… forceful… creature, as just about anyone who knows of them would tell you. Concerned mainly with blood and fighting and eating and hunting, they were not scholarly, to put it kindly. In other words, ordinary blutbaden tend to be a bit rough around the edges.

However, Edward Monroe is far from ordinary.

('')

Monroe felt like he had been split into two warring beings (which was actually not all that unusual for him, what with constantly forcing his—at times overwhelming—instincts down). One side was purely himself, a wieder-blutbad, fully aware of his actions and capable of rational thought. The other side was a drooling puddle that only wanted to do what the beautiful, wonderful,  _godly_  präriemord told him.

Unfortunately, the drooling puddle side was the one in charge.

So when she ordered him to shoot himself, he had a brief (though both violent and productive) internal struggle.

Anatomy was key. He'd taken several biological and anatomical classes in school—both high school and college—because the topics had fascinated him. He had received endless ribbing from his family and friends for wasting his time in subjects that were of no use to someone as feral as he had been.

In this second, he was endlessly grateful he hadn't let his pack persuade him to drop out.

So.

Gun goes into the mouth, point away from the spine, away from the jaw, down and away from the skull.

One very precise shot would allow him both to live  _and_  follow her orders (he was thankful for such specific orders—shoot yourself is  _not_  the same as kill yourself).

He braced for the impact, his mind racing through how badly it had hurt all the other times he'd been shot (there had been a surprising amount of bullets coming into contact with his body in his relatively short life). This was going to hurt like hell, and if he was even slightly off, the bullet could hit bone and he'd be dead. Then again, he could bleed to death and he'd be dead anyway, but, well. He trusted Nick.

So he pulled the trigger and oh god, he had  _never_  felt so much pain, never imagined this kind of pain could even  _exist_ , but!

He was alive.

He slumped to the ground and fainted.

('')

Monroe regained consciousness three days later, and he again woke to the smell of chemicals. He groaned and tried to roll away, but something was holding him down… He opened his eyes and looked in confusion at the leather straps tying him to the hospital bed he found himself in.

He blinked and looked around the room, (and oh. my. god. he should  _not_  be moving his head) eyes settling on the dark-haired form of one Nick Burkhardt, who was apparently sleeping half-draped on his bed.

His nose must be on the fritz, Monroe realized. He should have been able to smell Nick. Shooting himself had probably messed up his sinuses somehow—he was distinctly aware of the smell of iodine and his own blood, but everything else was kind of drowned out.

He tried to speak, though his attempt at Nick's name came out as more of a 'Nnnng,' accompanied by a sharp pain in his mouth and neck. He sighed, but Nick's head snapped up, eyes widening when he realized Monroe was awake.

The blutbad abruptly found himself covered by a babbling human—Nick was practically crying he seemed so happy. Monroe wanted to hug him back, but. The straps? He raised his wrists slightly, and Nick pulled back long enough to realize what he was silently asking. Nick grimaced.

"I'm sorry, I know, but you… shot yourself. You're on suicide watch."

Monroe growled (oh and _joy_ that hurt, too).

"I  _know_ ," Nick repeated, "but the doctor wants to ask you some questions before they untie you. I tried to explain that you were forced to do it, but they didn't really get it…" Monroe rolled his eyes and flexed his arms, and the leather restraints creaked ominously. "Do not break the bed just because you can," Nick warned with a slight smile, and Monroe relaxed his muscles slightly.

Nick leaned over Monroe's bed to press the nurse call button, and Monroe was unable to stop himself from inhaling deeply when Nick's arm passed in front of his face. And… there it was, something other than the smell of antiseptic, something clean and human and profoundly  _Nick_.

He closed his eyes and relaxed, and as a result, entirely missed when Nick's eyes softened in pleasure when he realized Monroe had been scenting him.

"He's awake," he said into the small speaker when a nurse asked if everything was all right. She told them she'd be in momentarily, and Nick sat back in his chair by the bed, then leaned forward again, knowingly allowing his scent to fill Monroe's nose (he knew how much the blutbad hated the smell of hospitals).

After a moment, Monroe opened his eyes again and gave him a questioning look, eyes lingering on the scrapes along Nick's face and hands and the bandages on his neck. Nick smiled reassuring and softly told him what had happened after Monroe had shot himself.

"...and I was beat up enough that I didn't have any problems convincing the responding officers that she was anything but a messed up kid… they're doing an autopsy now, and twenty bucks says they'll find some serious chemical imbalances." He grimaced. “I think Renard’s going to write me up for going after her myself, though.”

Monroe nodded carefully, avoiding jostling his bandaged neck too badly, and gave Nick a sympathetic look. Nick looked down, obviously wanting to say something more, and then hesitantly reached out and laced their fingers together. Monroe's eyes widened but he didn't try to pull away (not that he could anyway with his hands still tied).

"Listen," Nick started to say. "I have to tell you something—"

There was a soft knock at the door and a nurse slipped in. Nick leaned back and slid his hand away, but Monroe's eyes took a significantly longer time than usual to tear away from his friend's face.

"Need to check some vitals before the doctor comes in," the nurse said with a stiff smile. "It's a miracle you're awake, Mister Monroe. You were in pretty bad shape when you came in." She flashed a commiserating smile at Nick, who raised an eyebrow in response.

"I told you, he didn't—" Nick protested, but the nurse continued talking as if she didn't hear him.

"Your boyfriend hasn't left your side for a moment," she said, turning back to Monroe, and his eyes widened again as he glanced at Nick. She didn't appear to notice, busy with taking his blood pressure. "You're lucky to have someone who loves you so much," she said primly, her eyes lingering on the bandage that hid his gunshot wound. "The doctor will be here in a minute. I'll leave you boys to it."

She left and Nick shook his head in exasperation. "I swear to god, the woman doesn't listen at  _all_ ," he said.

Monroe opened his mouth to talk and Nick narrowed his eyes before sighing and leaning over to unstrap his wrists. "Probably going to catch hell for this," he mumbled, and handed Monroe a pen and paper once his hands were free.

 _I did shoot myself in the head_ , Monroe scrawled, and Nick sighed. Monroe watched him for a moment, then wrote,  _you were going to say something before Nurse Ratched interrupted us?_

Nick smiled and grabbed Monroe's hand again, noticing the slightest shade of red pass over his eyes and then just as quickly disappear. "Don't scare me like that again," he said softly, and Monroe quirked his mouth. "When I thought you were dead… I was… it was bad. So from Grimm to blutbad—no more dying, okay?"

Monroe nodded and tightened his fingers around Nick's.

('')

Monroe was released four days later, pronounced 'extraordinary' by his doctor, who was shocked at how fast he was healing. His head and neck were still aching, and he still needed a bandage, but he could talk without feeling like someone was sawing across his vocal chords and the worst of the migraines were abating.

He was just shrugging on a shirt that Nick had brought him yesterday in anticipation of his release when he heard a soft knock on the door, and he spun, annoyed that his nose still wasn't picking up smells in a timely fashion. He blamed the hospital—they freaking drowned the place in antiseptic.

Surprised, he realized the man in his door was mildly familiar—he'd seen him around the precinct. Nick's boss—Renard, he thought.

"I was looking for Detective Burkhardt," he said, and Monroe raised an eyebrow.

"He's supposed to pick me up," he rasped, then cleared his throat and winced. "Um. You're…?"

The man blinked. "Sorry. Captain Sean Renard. And you're Edward Monroe." He looked Monroe up and down as if sizing him up and Monroe narrowed his eyes, wishing again that his nose wasn't messed up. He swore he caught a hint of something… inhuman. But he was probably smelling things. Nick would have mentioned it if his boss was part of the creature world.

"You're close to Nick," Renard said, and Monroe nodded warily, unaware of how much Nick had told his fellow officers about him.

"We're friends," he answered, fully aware that that didn't quite do justice to whatever he and Nick had going on right now—whatever that was.

"It's good," Renard said slowly, and Monroe cocked his head. "That Nicolas has someone to… go to. He's a good man, I'm happy he has some support." His eyes flicked to the bandage on the back of Monroe's neck. "Though you could be more careful."

"I'll keep that in mind the next time some crazy chick tells me to shoot myself or she'll kill him," Monroe grated, going with the cover story they'd settled on. "But I was pretty careful when I aimed."

Renard nodded, and glanced at his watch. "Well. Mister Monroe, it was nice to meet you, but I'm afraid I must be going. I'll just catch up with Nick at the station." And with that he was gone. Monroe furrowed his brow in confusion and tried to feel like he hadn't just been checked up on by Nick's boss.

Humans. Weird as all hell.

('')

Nick hovered in the entryway of Monroe's house, obviously upset. "When you said you were fine to leave the hospital, I wasn't exactly planning on you being alone," he argued again.

Monroe rumbled in the back of his throat. "I'm  _not_  staying at your house. That's not safe, Nick. I'm a blutbad on some—quite frankly mind-bending—painkillers, and I haven’t been able to exercise or do any of my routines for days. I could very easily lose control, and if I'm going to do that, it's best to do it here."

"My house is  _empty_. Yours is full of delicate, breakable shit," Nick countered. "You know you'll be angry if you break a clock or… or! Your cello. You don't want to risk your cello, do you?"

"I'm not going to risk my cello. I'm also not staying with you." Monroe growled, and stomped to the kitchen, swearing under his breath when he opened the fridge and scented faint rot. "Leave for a week, the house goes to hell," he mumbled, and grabbed a beer.

Nick (who had of course followed him into the kitchen) leaned forward and plucked it deftly from his hands. "No alcohol," he reprimanded. "Nothing more intense than mashed peas."

"I hate peas," Monroe groused, and Nick put the beer back in the fridge, obviously fighting to keep a smile from his face.

"You're the worst patient ever," he told Monroe, who grimaced and drew himself a glass of water from the tap instead.

"Only when you're involved, Grimm. Usually I just lick my wounds and curl up for a few days and I'm just fine. Superior healing prowess, remember? Even my doctor told me I was a miracle of science—he obviously hasn't treated any blutbaden before." He took a long drink and grimaced, his hand flying up to press against the bandage on his neck.

"Unlikely, I suppose," Nick agreed, his eyes still betraying his worry, then grabbed Monroe's wrist and steered him out of the kitchen and toward the couch. "And healing prowess or not, you should be resting. Sit down and I'll make you a smoothie or something."

"I don't want a smoothie, I want a beer," Monroe groused. Nick pushed him lightly backward and he plopped onto the couch. Caught off guard, Monroe's eyes darkened for a moment before he twitched his head and refocused. "Staying with you is a bad idea."

Nick dropped down to sit next to him and angled his legs so their knees were just slightly brushing. "You keep saying that, but you won't tell me  _why_  it's a bad idea, though."

Monroe huffed. "It just is. I'm not in as strict of control as I should be."

Nick leaned forward slightly and his scent filled Monroe's nose. "Should I be worried that you're going to maul me? Cause I don't think you'd do that, no matter how out of control you were."

"N-no," Monroe said shakily. "Though I suppose it's always a possibility."

Nick watched him in silence for a moment, then moved even closer, pressing their sides together. Monroe whined slightly and tried to back up, but Nick just trapped him against the armrest of the couch and looked directly into Monroe's (slightly red-tinted) eyes. "I need to check your bandage," he said softly, and his fingers tracing along the edge of the gauze raised goosebumps on Monroe's neck.

Receiving no response, (other than slightly labored breathing) Nick carefully peeled back part of the bandage to get a look at the wound underneath. It was an angry red, a mixture of stitches and small bits of skin grafts—exit wounds were never pretty. But it looked better than it had so far—no more bleeding and the swelling was going down—and Nick knew that Monroe could move his neck with only small amounts of pain.

He carefully stuck the bandage back in place and then in a fit of bravery, leaned forward and kissed Monroe's neck softly where gauze met skin. Monroe sucked in a breath and whispered, "Nick?" before leaning back so he could look into his eyes.

Nick stared at him for a several long seconds before looking down and studying his hands. "You have no idea how fucking scared I was, Monroe," he admitted haltingly. "When I realized you were going to do it, I mean, you told me you had to do what she said but I didn't  _get_  it, I never thought it would go that far, and then you—"

Monroe reached out and pulled Nick to him, just hugging him tightly until Nick's stiff shoulders relaxed. They pulled back slightly as one and Nick rested his forehead against Monroe's. "You could've died," Nick told him.

"I didn't." Monroe murmured, and turned his head slightly to nose along Nick's jaw, breathing him in.

"Thankfully," Nick whispered, sharing Monroe's air, and then they were kissing, slow and soft at first but rapidly growing more insistent. Monroe pushed Nick backward, following him down onto the couch. But when he bent his head to kiss down Nick's throat, he let out a hiss of pain that had Nick pushing him up and watching him with wide eyes.

"This could possibly wait a couple days," Nick offered half-heartedly as Monroe tried to pull himself together. Monroe's eyes flicked up to look at him and Nick's mouth went dry—sharp red was mixing with the soft brown, and Nick was fairly certain he caught a hint of canines in Monroe's slightly parted mouth as those eyes raked over him.

"Maybe just a change of location," Monroe forced out, and Nick nodded.

They made it up the stairs and into Monroe's bedroom in short order and paused at the foot of the bed. Nick pushed Monroe to sit and then straddled him, sliding his fingers along the hard lines of the blutbad's chest and up the buttons of his shirt. Monroe watched developments with an almost dazed look, and Nick slowly began to strip them both.

Now Monroe found himself being pushed onto his back and Nick was moving down the bed. Somehow their pants and boxers had disappeared and Monroe pushed himself onto his elbows to watch just what on Earth Nick was doing. Was he really going to—oh god he was going to—Nick glanced up at him and grinned wickedly and suddenly there was hot suction and Monroe's eyes blazed red—he collapsed back down—he reached blindly above his head to grab at the headboard, not worrying that he was leaving claw marks—he fought the urge to arch up into Nick's mouth—

And oh  _god_  this was wonderful, (would you believe Monroe had never had a blow job? Because female blutbaden fangs and sensitive male blutbadan anatomy really should not  _ever_  mix) and he was whimpering, whining—he knew the noises he was making weren't even close to human. But Nick apparently didn't care, if the increased movement and his quiet laugh (and  _that_  was a wonderful feeling, more please) around Monroe was anything to go on.

And then Nick did something really quite dexterous with his tongue and then there was a hint of blunt teeth and Monroe practically howled in pleasure, unable to stop his hips from bucking slightly off the bed. After a moment, Nick was kneeling over him, smiling, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. And dear lord, he was trying to kill Monroe with sex—that was the only rationalization for this right now.

Monroe dragged Nick down, careful not to jostle his neck in the process, and tasted himself in the other man's mouth. He concentrated enough to make sure he wasn't sporting claws at the moment before reaching between them to return the favor. Nick let out a quiet groan of approval even though Monroe's initial movements were clumsy—he'd never touched another man like this before. But it was mostly common sense, and after a few moments, he'd settled into a rhythm that more or less mirrored how he handled himself.

And Nick's eyes rolled back in his head when Monroe twisted his wrist, flicked his thumb  _just there_  and he buried his sweaty head in Monroe's throat. He kissed and licked along the blutbad's neck and  _again_  with the teeth, scraping in a way that was just so unbearably sexy that Monroe couldn't hold back his whines. He guided Nick's mouth back to his, and damn, his teeth were still out—one sharp canine grooved a shallow cut along Nick's lower lip, and the taste of sweet iron filled Monroe's mouth.

He growled low in his throat but Nick just kissed him harder, letting Monroe taste him. And then sticky warmth was filling Monroe's hand and Nick was groaning and stilling and Monroe didn't want to ever let this—human—Grimm— _Nick_ —go.

Their kisses slowed and Nick wriggled even closer (after letting Monroe disentangle and wipe off his hand) and rested his dark head on Monroe's chest, in the perfect position where he could hear Monroe's (still slightly racing) heartbeat and where Monroe could bury his nose in Nick's hair.

After a moment of silence during which they both caught their breath, Nick mumbled, "If this is how you're planning on mauling me, I'd have to give you my enthusiastic permission to do so anytime you want to in the future."

Monroe snorted, and Nick pressed another kiss to his chest, then glanced down and ran an exploratory hand low on Monroe's stomach, teasing the wolf, who was already half-ready to go again. "If you give me fifteen minutes and have some lube handy, we can try something else," he said lowly, and when he grinned up at Monroe, his gaze was met with wide, red eyes.

"I'll take that as a yes," he said, and Monroe whined.

('')

Three weeks later, Nick stomped into Monroe's house and threw himself down on the couch, fuming. Monroe grunted, unimpressed, and ignored him in favor of aligning the inner workings of his latest commissioned piece. Nick took a few deep breaths and then turned to him.

"Should I quit the force?"

Monroe twisted a final miniscule screw to the correct tightness before turning to look at him. "Why would you want to do that?" he asked. "You said that being a cop is just as important as being a Grimm."

"Yea," Nick agreed, leaning forward on the couch and shaking his head. "But I'm barely able to function with both jobs." He sighed. "And freaking Renard! I don't know what I've done recently to make him so… I don't know. Anal, maybe. He's certainly being a huge pain about my cases recently."

"Really?" Monroe asked, slightly surprised. "He seemed concerned about you that one time I talked to him…"

"When did you talk to him?" Nick asked, confusion playing on his face.

Monroe blinked. "Didn't I tell you? He came to look for you when I was in the hospital. We talked for a minute, and then he said he'd just find you later." He appeared to think for a moment, then smiled slightly. "I guess I didn't tell you, but in my defense, you distracted me pretty thoroughly when you brought me home."

Nick snorted and rose from the couch to press up against Monroe, who was still seated at his desk. "Yea, I guess I did." He leaned down and kissed his blutbad, running his fingers lightly over the smooth and sensitive scar on the back of Monroe's neck. Monroe shivered and dragged Nick down into his lap for a drawn-out kiss.

"What did he want?" Nick asked when they'd finally separated.

"Um. Renard?" Monroe mumbled, his eyes still closed. "He, uh… I don't know. Just said he was looking for you. Told me he was glad you had a friend to go to, and that I should be more careful." He smiled up at Nick. "He called you Nicolas."

Nick raised an eyebrow. "That's weird. I've never said a word to him about you. I mean, he's my boss. He’s not exactly a friend. And no one calls me Nicolas… except…" he trailed off and stared into space for a moment before abruptly refocusing on Monroe. "Do you still have that note I got?"

"Um, it should be around here somewhere, though I again remind you that I'm not your secretary," Monroe told him, standing (dislodging Nick) and digging though a small pile of papers on his mantle regardless. After a moment, he held out the thick paper. "Here."

Nick plucked it from his fingers and then dug through his own pockets, finding another folded sheet of paper and smoothing it out on the coffee table next to the mysterious note. Monroe peered over his shoulder and saw that the paper was a handwritten memo from one Captain Renard.

"Holy shit," Nick breathed. The handwriting was almost identical, though one was written with a common ball-point pen and one was clearly written with the use of an inkwell. He looked up at Monroe, who was watching him in surprise. "Renard knows about me."

"He's not a creature, is he?" Monroe asked, and Nick shrugged.

"I have no idea. I've never seen him lose any sort of control." He stared back down at the two sheets of paper in his hands and shook his head. "What do we do now?" he asked Monroe, who shrugged and simply looked uneasy.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Cleaned up a bit and reposted from ff.net. I wasn't planning on posting this here, but I feel a bit incomplete and wanted to write a sequel to it so... eh. This was my first attempt at the Grimm fandom, so yea.


End file.
